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TVC Supplement to Chapter 53 - Ashes of Power

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Trevy the Great

Vampire Progenitor
True Blood
Mar 2, 2008
The ancient citadel once stood high, its massive spire piercing the very skies themselves, a monument to the gods of the power of immortals forever chained to the earth by their own cursed existence. It had fallen to ruin, a reminder to all weary travelers that even the constructs of immortals are limited in their existence. Sitting on its side, the enormous cylinder ran across the peak of the mountain that once supported its reach for the clouds, massive blocks of rock that had once made up the its walls strewn about as if they were papers blown from the arms of a high-headed academic by the vengeful forces of nature, encrusted with worn runes that once held incalculable power. The rocky crags of the mountain peak cut into the once-regal form of the citadel, crushed under its weight as it fell and leaving splinters of rock scattered around the enormous cracks that spider-webbed about the cylindrical walls of the tower. It's impact had altered the form of the edifice slightly, crushing it like the parchment scroll held too tightly by a rushing courier. The corners of previously well-fit stones jutted out at jagged angles; some had fallen from their precarious perches long ago to sit forlorn on the pounded earth and wind-blown rock.

Vekarin stood atop the shattered remains of an ancient wall that had run around the perimeter of the tower's edge and looked down on the cheerless scene, his emotion hidden behind the ghastly visage of his mask. The wind whipped past him, billowing his dirty, singed and bloodstained violet cloak behind him like an unnatural set of daemonic wings, and yet the enigmatic touch of the elements did not seem to effect Vekarin's form as it stood in defiance of them, resplendent in it the black plate of Kekarsarun, shining with runes that pulsed with energy. His baleful gaze was not directed towards the fallen majesty of his once-mighty citadel nor the devastation wrought by its collapse but instead towards what had survived its destruction. The ruined base of the fortress now existed only as a sunken foundation - broken stones and masonry opening to the extensive mines below the Violet Citadel, now useless. That which was not broken or collapsed was later destroyed by the elements; flooded, windworn or used as shelter by all manner of frightening beasts that inhabited the cursed Sylvanian mountains. Through the cracked stone stood one piece of the citadel intact - preserved from nature's wrath as if by divine hand. It was a door, simple and plain, wooden and banded with strips of iron that held its frail form together. On it hung a simple, iron lock that swung slightly in the mighty wind, creaking as it did. It was unassuming and inconspicuous - perhaps why it was avoided by the looters and beasts that had rifled through the building since its destruction, but perhaps it was protected by a higher power, preserved by a fate chosen for it at the beginning of time. It was a tool, an object to protect from the world the treasures that it held within. Or perhaps to protect the world from them?
It was at this portal that Vekarin's dully glowing eyes observed, staring, boring into it as if considering the repercussions of its unlocking.

"You have been sorely missed at council." Zosz' rasp pierced the wind that howled about the two figures standing alone atop the mountain. Vekarin did not respond for a moment - he made no move, no motion that indicated that he has realized the spirit's arrival.
"Their business does not concern me any longer." he growled after a pause, his eyes never leaving the tiny door, "If they wish to side with enemies and in so doing tear themselves apart, I will have no part in it."
"They have banded themselves together, at long last, Banespike." Zosz told the Blood Dragon, "The decision was made by the council to leave the Carsteins in charge of their own forces while the Council's troops are commanded by another of their own ranks. They work now as two disparate factions under one banner, rather than one banner being torn down by their individual goals." Vekarin made no response, and so Zosz continued.
"They have entrusted command of the Council's combined forces to the leadership of the Blood Duke."
At this statement, Vekarin turned, tearing his eyes away from the door in the mountain far away.
"Have they grown more blind with each passing moment?" He asked the necromancer, his voice a low rumble that cut through the shrieking wind with an unearthly growl despite its low volume. Zosz leaned on his staff, not responding and Vekarin lowered his head, fuming. After a moment, he shook his head slightly as if dispelling the voice of another councilor and looked up, his eyes blazing with balefire.
"I have not seen all that I have built torn down by the powers of the Dreadlords simply to have the fate of this world put into the hands of a hot-headed fool!" He raged, his voice taking on a more feral tone while remaining deadly quiet, "Do they forget so soon that this Duke, this hero with whom they are so sickly infatuated fought for our very enemy not months ago?"
He stepped down from is perch atop shattered stones and set his eyes on Zosz' meager figure.
"And what of Requarah?"
"She too is suspect, Impaler." Zosz confirmed, "Although no proof presents..."
"No proof is needed," Vekarin interrupted, growing dangerously low once again, "Past crimes are as incriminating as any in the present."
He strode past Zosz, his cloak settling about his shoulders in a lull, making him appear more impressive than he had.
"I will return," he stated rhetorically, "and when I do, there will be hell to pay."
"Indeed." Zosz rasped.

Vekarin stopped suddenly, turning for a moment, his eyes setting on the door in the mountain, barely visible in the distance.
"Dwell not so on the past, Vekarin." Zosz councilled, stepping up beside him, "That which is contained within will cause nothing but pain to all."
"Speak not what does not concern you." Vekarin retorted, and started back down the hill.
A moment later the two disparate figures - one massive and armored, the other thin and bent, disappeared in a puff of smoke that blew quickly away in the howling winds.
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